As long as she was with him, nevertheless, she felt secure and protected and contented. Her feelings of contentment and security had been an intricate ivory carving of his protective wings since the very fi rst time they met in a massage parlor. It was a quiet afternoon encounter. She was alone at the reception, smearing her bruises and cuts with aloe. Her quiet showed it was business as usual. But her swollen eyes with silent tears were in evidence. Drawn by curiosity, and in a sympathetic manner, he got to know that her husband had beaten her. For no apparent reason, he had since had a soft spot for her. Perhaps it was her helpless loneliness that won his sympathy. Like a duck to water, she had accepted his immediate invitation for tea. Sitting at a table face-to-face in a tatami teahouse, he was the one she could confi de in. The more he heard of her story, the greater aff ection he had developed for her. They, before long, had become intimately acquainted and miraculously intimate. Year after year, their intimacy condensed. However, he’d never freed himself from his shell and she never crossed the line to bother him for any change. His existence enriched her and hers satisfied him. He gave her more than enough, and she lay open before him like a starfi sh, a desirable starfi sh. He kissed her wounds as though the wounds were his. To avoid her questioning frown or suspicion, he would sometimes confess, “I just want you as the same hurt bird.”